


Love It Will Not Betray You, Dismay Or Enslave You (It Will Set You Free)

by Fake_Brit



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternatively Titled: Mellie Ships It Fic, Angst and Fluff, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, POV Multiple, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fake_Brit/pseuds/Fake_Brit
Summary: What I’m trying to put into words is the fact that, despite my persistent inability at saying such a thing, the idea of you dying for any reason is pretty high on my list of upsetting things—and it’s been like this for while [...]"AKA the fic in which Mellie notices something is up with our favourite modern day Bonnie-and-Clydesque duo and decides to do something about it, because there's only so much one can let slide.





	Love It Will Not Betray You, Dismay Or Enslave You (It Will Set You Free)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, WOAH. I'm pretty sure this my longest fic ever. It's been keeping me up as a harmeless idea since before hatius time, and here it comes, growth sprout and all.  
> Serious notes include a couple of things: 1)this pretty much follows canon up until 7x03 before Fitz shows up chez Olivia, with the exception of Curtis being in the elevator and you'll figure out how (also the entire B613 plot, because I couldn't have come up with a suspenseful plot in a week of writing. I'm no witch, guys)  
> 2)There's a small Fitz PoV, so here comes the disclaimer: in case you haven't read me online, I don't particurarly like the guy, so I might be a little harsh to him. If it's not your thing, you're free to skip that PoV  
> 3)Some parts of this fic could also function as a prequel to Times Has Brought Your Heart To Me, but it is completely readable by itself  
> 4) Title is a verse from Mumford & Sons Sigh No More  
> Last but not least, I don't own this show or else you'd see this stuff on TV screens. (A girl can dream, right?)

**_ I _ **

**_ Mellie _ **

“OH, MY GOD.” Diplomacy and class really have failed her. She’s the President of the United States, for God’s sake—which, FYI, means that her résumé is a little bigger than that of say— a reality TV star, and that she’s spent years reading people and calculating and consequently striking without missing either a beat or a bullseye, but nope; this, she has never even caught a hint of.

And yet—

“ _You_ ,” her voice trembles like a leaf, perfectly manicured finger held high toward Liv; what she is about to say stuck in her throat, coated in heavy disbelief. “ _You love him._ ” A whisper; thin and throaty, almost as though Mellie were afraid of breaking some kind of magic.

Her fears materialise—as much as this kind of fears might actually materialise; let’s just say, what she thought was going to happen? It happened—as soon as the words register, and Liv flinches.

“I don’t, Mellie,” she sighs—and it feels like it is anything except the first time she says something of the sort.

“Honey, please,” she huffs. Also known as, _I can smell bullshit and you know that, so quit it._ “I’ve seen the way you two go around looking at each other, and it has a name—unresolved sexual tension.” Mellie’s voice has unwillingly taken a sour note; the edge breaking into silence like glass falling to the ground. The last word hangs in the air, melancholy dripping like blood from a wound would.

The darkness of her own analogy doesn’t fade from her mind, (it’s becoming—or has it already? It could have, which would make her list of more-than-damn-obvious thing she has missed grow, again; it irks her farther than no end—incredibly easy for her to employ trauma-related figures of speech in her everyday inner monologues) but Liv’s stubborn and utterly useless deflecting methods have to go and— _exist._

“And that relates to your previous epiphany because...” her voice isn’t teasing. No, she’s only heard of Teasing-Liv through second-hand (alright, fine; third or fourth is more like it) stories. And this? This is nothing but acid sarcasm, which, after close to ten years in D.C., is nothing except a signal she’s become used to. _Keep hitting and you’ll find the throbbing nerve._

“Because,” she gripes. _I never thought knowing about you and Fitz could one day be defined as_ tame _._ “It may not be evident to you, Liv, but—you two in the same room? You two _screaming at each other without breaking eye-contact once you’re done_ in the same room?” her voice has risen; she’s borne witness to that particular kind of dance too many times in the last few months not to react even at the memory of it.

Their words may cut,—she’d expect nothing less; they’re a couple of sharks, whether they acknowledge it or not—but their gazes linger and caress and envelop. It’s like intruding.

“I still have no idea what you’re going on about, ma’am,” ice has dropped into her words, like when she managed Fitz’s campaign(s) and someone got into their heads that contradicting her might lead to something different than their head getting ripped off—if Liv was feeling generous, that is. In case she wasn’t, they might has well have booked a funeral.

“Uh, maybe the fact that in addition to plain ol’ eye-fucking,” she’s done holding back. Liv wants to deny until she chokes? Fine, she’ll react accordingly; so be it. “One Admiral Ballard makes you smile, Olivia. Now, as weird as it might be for you to hear this, that’s good—very good.”

Olivia’s brow cocks. “Shouldn’t you be back at pointing metaphorical daggers at me?” her smile is lightning-quick, humourless; deprecating, even. “He’s married,” she reminds, lowly; the two words sound incredibly tired and dry—as though they had been running past her lips in a loop for a while.

“Like that’s ever been an issue for you,” this is not a reproach or a scoff or whatever this phrase might sound like; it’s just a fact—the impact of which on her own train wreck of a marriage has long since left a scar that could’ve been on its way to healing, had Marcus stayed; that’s an entirely different can of worms, though. One that she is so not gonna try to open right now, because Liv’s going to put on her Big Girl heels in her personal life. If it is the last thing Mellie gets done, today. (And this phrase right here? That is supposed to sound just like you’d imagine; determined, focused. Close as hell to intimidation.)

“You don’t know the whole story, Mellie.”

There it comes again—the sigh trembling along the words; its end dissipating in defeat as though she’d already given up. 

She’s about to remark yet again that what she’s seen doesn’t exactly add up—but something catches her words and traps them: the way Olivia’s face has gotten stuck—still, even; petrified as tough the act of recalling were comparable to stabbing herself (and, as she’s about to discover, it turns out that description isn’t far off from the truth at all)—into a grimace; what sort, however, is a definition she seems to have run out of words for. Her mouth is tightly shut, while her eyes, open as they are, seem to be unending wells of emotions; their depths swirling as tough a hurricane were breeding from within. 

“Tell me, then,” she urges, voice thin; her skin alive with goosebumps as she stares at Liv. “Tell someone and stop running from what you feel, Olivia.” 

Her initial reaction is denial—duh; classic Liv, that much she expected. What she had no chance of foreseeing, however, is the way that same denial starts cracking the longer she keeps it up. Her head is shaking, (check; normal) her hand following suit (check; most definitely _not_ normal) and she’s trying pretty hard to stare at anything (at the moment, the subject of her fixation seems to be a particular spot where the curtains dive to hug the window, which—Mellie’s about ninety percent sure of the fact, after almost nine, or better yet, ten years of coming and going in and out of the Oval—have been here, gathering dust and who knows what other sort of grossness, since way before Fitz was elected. That, or they stopped selling other colours) but her eyes.

It’s like the mere concept of someone seeing—and thus acknowledging—her like this, of staring at the reflection of whatever buried emotion this tale digs up on the face of anybody else just unhinges her; there’s something here, something she’s still tiptoeing around.

She has been still and silent for a while now, the weight of what has been going around in her head evident in the way her frown and tremors seem to have been etched into her skin and muscles, the silence growing suffocating by the minute.

Then, as sudden as a summer storm, Liv exhales; it’s a loud sound—deafening, even—and her entire body seems to shudder in tune with the air seeping out of her. “The wedding, the entire marriage, was a scam,” pause. The lump in her throat crashes the rest of her sentence. Her eyes are still nowhere near Mellie’s face, and yet the anguish in her voice rings as though it were a gunshot and Mellie shivers as though Olivia had stared straight at her while pulling the trigger. “Orchestrated by my father to have funds and have someone on the inside of the campaign—at the same time. Jake was,” her eyes slam shut, the words stop; another lump presses down, and Mellie’s own throat closes up. The picture her chief of staff has barely begun painting takes her back to a night she would rather erase. Jerry’s death is no longer a fresh cut, but the pain still grips her so tight she can’t breathe at times; mutely kicking and screaming at a ghost that she wishes were anything but in the middle of the night, in a bed that feels ready to swallow her whole at the tiniest nod.

“He was a pawn, albeit slightly more aware than Vanessa, and he asked me for help.” Liv’s always been good at summarising because a crucial part of her job is to exploit details—any kind of detail.This, however, feels nothing like summarising for the sake of a client; no, this feels like detachment.

She glares at her. It might have felt like an explanation if Mellie had somehow gotten to match this brief run-down of events to Olivia’s actual memories of them, but mind reading has been neither invented nor perfected yet, so she’s gonna have to dig deeper than that. “And...” she prods, eyebrow curved upward. “I wish that were enough to dissipate my doubts properly, Olivia,” she sighs, her friend’s name coming out an octave too high, like it used to do back when she grumbled it in frustration and her nerves got the better of her, but she couldn’t really do anything about it. “Alas, I’m afraid they’ve only deepened thus far.”

Olivia rolls her eyes, the amusement vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.

“He asked me for help, because my fath—because Rowan was manipulating him, the same way he manipulates everybody, and the only solution we were able to come up with was,” her voice gets thinner, like a candle swaying in the wind and eventually fading out.

Mellie swallows; feeling the same kind of weight that has started echoing in Liv’s words as it slides down her own shoulders as though this were her own story, even when a twist of her gut, painful and almost fiery, warns her about the fact that this is neither the end nor the heaviest bit of it.

“Crashing the wedding?”

Liv nods and the tears in her eyes are no longer something that they’re both waiting for or fearing; they pool at the corners as she tries to reign them back in. Cue another lump that she smothers rather loudly; her sobbing—wordless as it is—isn’t as easy to hide: it’s an unfinished sound, pain echoing relentlessly, caged and growing and being forced into silence and a space made for anything but pain for God knows how long, festering and festering like a wound that should never have gotten that far. 

“We—I,” she amends, her voice still heavy. The crying hasn’t blown into itself yet, but a twist at the base of her spine tells her that it’s coming and all she can do is let that reality set in and get ready for it to shatter the fragile balance the room has fallen into. “I almost did it; I wanted to do it, _I was ready to do it_ ; I even told Huck. I said, _I’m ready to be happy_.” Another sob makes its way out of her mouth, powerful and unchecked. “Because that’s what Jake does, you know? No mental images, no hypothetical house and children; all he has to do is be there, let me be me and I just am, whether we’re dancing or sitting and nursing glasses of wine—the sun is out, and I am bone-deep happy and free and it’s all _real_ —so real it scares the crap out of me every five minutes” It’s not a moment where she’s supposed to be smiling, but that’s exactly what she is doing right now; her eyes are red and puffy, her shoulders are sagging and she’s shivering, but Olivia Pope is smiling. As in, half of her face’s disappeared and her eyes are alight smiling.

“So, yes; I would’ve loved to do it—it would’ve given the only person for whom I am not supposed to be anything but my emotionally closed off self back to me. Of course, though, that would have also meant that my life would be easy,” a bitter laugh—which Mellie herself has laughed one too many times—slips out of her. “Yeah, that was apparently too much to ask—which brings the attention back to my father, who promptly cornered me inside the church and basically cut and divided my choices into, A) Go through with this and I’ll personally see to it that Jake dies and you see it as it happens, because you’re taking away his “chance at greatness”; or B) Let this go on as planned.” Her voice lowers into a whisper, breaking on the last bit of it as tears take over the words.

Mellie’s mouth clamps shut in response. She had figured that with Rowan involved things weren’t exactly going to head in a Disneyland-related direction, but staring at Liv as she tells the tale—it’s almost too much to bear.

“I stopped him, obviously,” she squeaks—and for a second, the only thought Mellie can formulate is, _shit; I should’ve sent for alcohol before I asked anything_. “But I also broke him.I had to stand there and spew lies. I had to stand there and—”

“Liv,” the pain in her voice has been growing with each word, just like her movements; the deeper she ventures into the story, the more agitated she gets.Her foot starts tapping on the floor, her hands clench and unclench, cross and uncross. “You were trying to...”

“No. I stood there and pressed every last one of his damn buttons because the idea of him dying,” she shakes her head again.“It’s just... _too much_ for me to even think of handling it, and I’m sad to say that I’m speaking from experience, but that’s extremely beside the point.”

“Nope, it most definitely isn’t. If anything, from where I stand, it completely follows and expands the point, Olivia.”

She blinks.

“You said so yourself,” she sighs. She respects the hell out this woman, she truly does; which is why she might be putting a heavy dose of _are you kidding me, Pope_ in that sigh. “You can’t handle the idea of him not being in the picture. Wait—during the campaign, you weren’t out of it because of Andrew. He had less than zero relevance in your I-Want-To-Forget-I’m-Even-Human shenanigans, didn’t he?” she might be overdoing with the peppy notes, it’s absolutely possible, no use in denying that; holy crap, though—that entire time where she had to force her to sleep because, _my campaign manager can’t look dead, Olivia. It’s always about optics_ —it all makes so much more sense right now, with the whole puzzle finally clear in her eyes. “Girl, you’ve got it bad and deep. Which begs the obvious question, why aren’t you doing anything concrete about it?”

It’s Olivia’s turn to sigh. “It’s complicated.”

_ What are you, fifteen? _

“For the _umpteenth_ time—I have eyes, Liv. And what I’ve subjected them to for the last three months?” she crosses her arms, her chin jutting out; defiance booming in her demeanour like thunderclap. “It’s definitely, by-dictionary-definition, not even on the same side of the road as platonic.”

She smiles thinly, her movements caught in the unfinished sketch of a wince. “Not going to argue with that, but I might’ve implied that, uh—that road had better remain untaken. Permanently untaken, that is.” She’s scrambling for words as if she’d rather avoid going there.

“Olivia, dear, what is it that you’re not telling me?”

“More recently, I told him that we’re good together, but it had to stop there, because I couldn’t do it. The job takes the pedestal; you know it, I know it and so does he.”

“You mean to tell me,” she enunciates it slowly, as though the entire concept refused to be computed into her brain. No; screw the as if’s. It most definitely does _not_ compute. Truth be told, her brain is too busy filling it away as newest example of ridiculous to even bother trying. “That I’ve had to sit through God knows how many hours of poorly-veiled eye sex and consequent brusque glances—because, newsflash; you two don’t even need to speak to each other all the time—because you’re afraid of committing through facts? A little too late for that, Liv, don’t you agree?”

Liv always knows what to say to move a conversation in whichever direction she wants it to go. Her rebuttal hasn’t even reached a coherent shape, its structure floating around somewhere in her eyes—steely, cold; almost poisonous—but Mellie is not going to be swayed away. Not on this. “Listen, I understand that it’s hard. I’ve been playing the game longer than you; I started back when it wasn’t even directly about me—which is why I’m now telling you, _go for it._ ” Her voice becomes flimsy, faltering along the words; urgency dripping through the pauses. “I have been on this ride; I have climbed and climbed and climbed to keep up with its curves and twists, hoping to soar one day. Climbing was hard. I had to be good enough to hide that I was actually just as good—if not better than—as the person who had offered me the ride.” She is done being bitter about what she had to endure to get here. What doesn’t kill you does put things into perspective, after all. “Over the years, I’ve also seen you climb and you are magnificent at it; stubborn, but skilled.” If anything, the fact that she’s so stubborn has done nothing but fuel her desire of having such skills. “As for the Admiral, the bits and pieces I’ve caught only show one thing: the only part he wants of this ride is seeing _you_ soar—as in, fly high and inspire awe, while he’s by your side backing you up and occasionally advising you soar. And trust me; it’s not easy to come by men like that.”

Silence follows—huh. That must be a first.

“In short: he’s all for you being you, Liv. You should treasure that.”

Her chief of staff leaves the office without a comment—muttered, desolated, biting; you name it. There are none—and the air lightens, as though it had shifted from carrying regret to caring promises. 

**_ II _ **

**_ Olivia _ **

She shouldn’t even be thinking of what Mellie told her during their one-on-one in the office.

_ The only part of this ride he wants is seeing you soar. _

Shaking her head is an automatic impulse. _That path is off-limits._

She’s closed multiple doors on that one, multiple times. With good reason—he’s even recognised as such, on those rare occasions they’ve dared approach the topic. Which were nothing short of a miracle but can be aptly boiled down to this: he’d plunge in, recklessness etched into his tight way of sitting, his voice harsh, and she’d clam up, stony and ramrod-straight in her stubbornness; her denial feeble—thin—yet firm, terror lurking somewhere remote like a wild horse inside of her. All too similar to the time that immediately followed the assassination of Francisco Vargas.

Every time they thought they could do this, every time _she_ thought she could set this in motion—panic kicks and punches into her stomach, feral and vicious. Flashes of close calls—as in, plural; every instance a deeper blow to her guts—flutter behind her eyelids and that old, sinking feeling makes her dizzy.

There’s nothing quite like holding the hand of someone who’s been on the brink of death when it feels like this is the time the brink will be a slamming door; the sweat (her own) might be a memory, a ghost half true according to her brain, but the wilderness of her hope still echoes through her blood, even now; when she’s cut him out just to never have to wonder how silent the world would be without him in it, laying truths in front of her via snarky comments and never wavering when she needs him. _You were right, you know. We should’ve never left that island. Live, though. Please, don’t give up._

Mellie has every bit of a good intention as she had that day, though she lacks the awareness that has done nothing but echo in her bones, more and more often ever since panic had surged that first time he’d disappeared into thin air. God, even just remembering how frantic her own voice had felt, running over the words, the itch that something had happened and whatever it had been had hurt him and taken him—and she hadn’t stopped it; _she should have known and stopped it_ —burning like a match, it all makes her feel like she needs to hurl, even years later.

She sighs, feeling it travel and burn all the way to her ribs.

_ Let it go, Olivia. _

Her thoughts are a jumbled mess, overlapping and cutting each other off, only to lead her into a loop she has no way of opening. She’s tried.

She’s walked with no exact destination in mind; her feet have led to HQ, just like they used to walk towards OPA—work against feeling it is.

He’s sprawled across the smaller couch, documents stacked next to him, his attention on whatever recording his tablet is playing. “Where’s the fire, Boss?” Biting seems to be the meal, with a side of frosty.

_ Don’t call me that. _ “No fire,” she says, lowly. “Just—can’t do everything in broad daylight. Out of carefulness; and Mellie banished me out of the office because, I’m quoting, if you don’t move, you’ll end up growing roots.”

“If you haven’t grown roots by wearing ridiculously high heels day in and day out twenty-four/seven since I met you, I find it unlikely that three months as chief of staff will do the trick, boss.” 

“Stop calling me _Boss_.” It takes two to tango, Admiral. 

“Why should I,” he’s turned his attention on her, record momentarily forgotten, and he’s staring with his brow turned up; his voice flat and cold. “The shoe fits, Boss, so I tie the laces and leave it at that.”

Nope—he’s not winning this. “Excuse me, Admiral Ballard, if I value your cooperation beyond meaningless physical encounters.” Her voice sting worse than the first shot of vodka; she swallows against a tight lump of screams. This can’t be happening right now.

“If you actually valued it, Olivia,” he drags her name out. She’s never seen him handle a knife, but she has no doubt that the person on the other end of the blade would feel like this: frozen on the spot, extremely aware of the blade dancing in and out of the touch with their skin like a gust of cold wind; trying and failing to avoid flinching. “You would ask for it, instead of assuming you have it already.”

“I never took you for the kind of person that would throw a hissy fit over your role, Admiral.” He wants formal? Alright, then; formal he shall get. The hint of venom in her voice might slip anyone else’s notice, but not his.

“I usually don’t,” he concedes. “However, given the fact that you have established this hierarchy yourself, without any outside binding factor other than your own authority—you should make up your mind.” He’s matching her, venom for venom; animosity for animosity. Even sitting in front of her; his muscles relaxed as though they were chilling waiting for a beer after a tiring day at work. “You asked for things to keep things work-related, and you’re the one who spits fire every time I respect that boundary. So, what is it that you actually want from me, Olivia?”

_ Full naming me again; talk about spitting fire. _

“What is it that I actually want,” she echoes. “I want you to stop, is what I want.” Stop keeping me out, stop holding onto this hierarchy, as you call it, as though it were a weapon to wield whenever we’re not in crisis mode; just— _stop_. “Stop pretending like what we’ve been through didn’t happen; stop running the other way whenever work lets us catch a breath—”

She’s still talking when she hears it; he had let her rant and now he’s laughing. It’s that rumble his chuckle makes when his laugh means anything but amusement. Eventually, it settles into disbelief. “I’m pretending?” It’s a snort; low and cutting. “I wasn’t the one who ran back into a cycle where everything required is willingness to overlook that you’re perceived as not even half of what you actually are, you know.”

It stings, she can’t deny that. It’s a familiar kind of sting though; the one that warms her all over whenever he proves—biting words or no biting words—that he sees through whatever façade she decides to build up for the world. It’s like saying _I see you_ without necessarily using the expression; or words at all, sometimes.

“If my alternative to hiding, because that’s what you want to call it and you know that I know, is seeing you die then yes; I’ll hide,” her voice is a thread and she fears it might break any minute now. The room, albeit currently quiet, feels as though it were on the verge of breaking. Into what, she has no idea.

And break—it does.

He’s not yelling when he says, “I’m Kryptonite and you’re, who—Kara Zor-El? Is that what you’re telling me?”

She huffs. “What I’m _trying_ to put into words is the fact that, despite my persistent inability at saying such a thing, the idea of you dying for any reason is pretty high on my list of upsetting things—and it’s been like this for while; getting operated on by a former KGB operative, does that ring any bells?” she’s on a rant again, which will probably end up earning one of his eye-rolls because he’s developed an intolerance for them, (still; his are pretty good, too—just... a much rarer occurrence) but the words keep coming and for some reason keeping them buried doesn’t seem to be working anymore. “So, this being the third time in eight years, excuse me for freaking out because I have come to think of you as someone I care about.”

“I would be touched,” he drawls, getting up and closer. He’s starting at her, head tilted; there’s something in that low tone of his, something she can’t help but think of as intimate. “If it had come up earlier, because all you’ve shown lately,” the question drips with accusation, “is something below respect.”

She has no clear idea of what to say next. Her throat is burning with the words she’s always heard and never said; her skin is warm as well. Warm in way it hasn’t been since that last time.

“Goddamn,” somehow, the angry, harsh hiss comes out of her mouth—tearing it open—as if muffled by an invisible pillow. “I’m trying to tell you I love you and you just—won’t let the mood stick, huh. You got to sway me. Learn how to share, why don’t you?”

By the time her brain catches up with the flurry of movements that follows—his steps; the curve his neck draws so that it can bend ever so slightly, his hands unclasping; his eyes wandering all over her face, glowing with something she can’t exactly name—he’s already kissing her. It’s deep and kind of aggressive and it manages to nib and tease at the same time; it’s a welcome home that tastes like she never left, but waiting for her had been torture all the same.

When they part, reality still fragmented around them, her head ends up resting on his shoulder, his hands moving across her back—drawing countless shapes as though it were a vast set of canvas he is no longer being kept from.

The quiet and the warmth, though dream-like to both of them, (she’s actually dreamt about this sense of— _belonging_ ; because, she realises as she burrows further into him, that’s what this is, for a while now) are like a blanket; they are a welcome change against the tense world they had been standing in, albeit a small and fragile kind of change.

“You were right,” his voice echoes against her cheek, soft like she never thought she would hear it again; not wide awake, at least. “It _is_ nice to hear such things for a change.”

Her hand fists his shirt, tight enough that she manages to also pinch him in the process. “I’m always right, but spicing things up was a long overdue move.”

She can’t see him grin, but she’s sure that’s what he is doing. “Are you insinuating that your life was in dire need of spicing up?”

_ Smartass, Ballard.  _ “Not insinuating; acknowledging and letting change run its course.”

The hug breaks off, but their fingers remain intertwined; a tight knot she has no intention of undoing, the strength no one realised either of them had, a weapon that blossomed on its own instead of being groomed into existence.

**_ III _ **

**_ Fitz _ **

It’s weird for him to have missed her on her way in. Of all the certainties he has about Liv, this one has proved to be the soundest one over the years; she’s barely ever home.

Unease beats into his body like a drum as he rings the doorbell.Being here is a necessary evil—this city sucks the soul out of people on a normal stay; what she’s gotten her mind set on like a stone will—no; _would._ He’s here to put all of this mess to bed—end up eating her alive.

Marcus’s words echo through his head, loud and bitter. _Your accomplishments are Olivia’s_ , he’d yelled. Which isn’t exactly a lie, okay, but—also not completely true; Olivia has always said she saw something in him, something other politicians utterly lack. 

The echo of footsteps on the other side of the door shakes him away from his thoughts. Anticipation builds, his nerves buzzing as though a firework were about to sparkle into existence at their end, like a match clicking up. 

When the door moves—and slides open; carrying a faint question along the  creaking of its hinges, though he only catches its tail, a lazy, hopeful murmur of, “...that pizza?”—surprise nearly slams the breath out of him. There Jake Ballard stands; barefoot, at ease and looking nearly as taken aback as Fitz feels.

The shock wears off as though it had never been a thing and his face descends into mild surprise. “Not pizza, I’m afraid,” he calls back toward the door. “But you should see this, Liv.” 

There’s something in the way her name rolls off his tongue that has Fitz’s stomach tie up in knots. There’s that hint of familiarity, of closeness—it’s like ice crawling down his spine.

“Jake this had better be good,” her voice grows with each word, annoyance a mere shadow beneath the lightness of it. “You know where pizza stands among my priorities.”

The admiral almost smiles—his eyes do twinkle; his mouth quirks, toothless—but catches himself. She comes into view and Fitz almost misses it; the way Jake’s hand finds her shoulder and squeezes, lightly brushing against her shirt. It’s a message he has no way of decoding, though he does catch a whiff of something changing—hardening; locking into place—in her expression.

Gone is the playfulness. “What are you doing here? I thought I’d made myself clear.” All he hears is steel.

“We need to talk, Liv,” his voice sounds tired.The mere reason he has for being here has exhausted him. “This has gone on long enough.”

“Whatever it is that _you_ need to say can be said here.” Her arms cross; her voice dips into harshness. “No need to upset anyone with unnecessary fatigue.”

“Liv,” he pleads flimsily. “If we could just go somewhere and—talk. It’s all I’m asking, please”

“And all I’m saying,” she counters, staring at him without even missing a beat, “is that I’m fine where I am, albeit slightly disappointed that my pizza is still somewhere else. So, let me save you some breath, because your trip from Vermont must’ve been tiring; whatever it is that you strolled all the way here to remind me of—my rebuttal is this, you have always seen me as the solution to your problems, as the other half of a fantasy you cooked up and let steam inside of your head for so long because taking charge of your life seemed to be an unachievable feat worthy of Hercules himself.” She stops, her feet carrying her closer; her voice bouncing off the walls. “You ever wonder if that’s actually all there is to me? I doubt it, Fitz; because what there is to me, despite your masterful cuts and chopping and ignoring, is a hurricane made of so much more than a sordid secret and skills you can turn to your gain. And this hurricane—it doesn’t need directions.”

She turns around, leaving him gaping, and stalks past Jake; the door locks in her wake.

“Are you going to stare at me as though I somehow brought this about and you want me to catch fire?” Jake’s voice cuts through the silence, lively and harsh at the same time. “Let me tell you, you’d be wasting time and energy; no one puts ideas into her, as much as you would like to stick to that. All you’ve seen— _it is like Liv_.”

He leaves; the feeling leaking through is bones is like an anchor, dragging him down and down and down, until rock and sand scratch his back—it tastes like inevitability, this loss.

-:-

“You’ve been to see Liv, I take it,” Mellie surmises upon taking him in, furrowed brows, angry striding into her office and all.

“Doesn’t it worry you—all of it?” desperation has grown tired of hiding and lowering; so, now, it roars.

“Worry me?” she parrots, surprised. “Ecstatic and a teensy bit envious are words that fit my mood better.”

He blinks.

“You weren’t here,” she mutters as a way of explanation. “And even if you had been, I find it hard to entertain the idea that you would’ve seen what has flashed in front of me for three months, job or no job.” Her hand has started moving, as if to untie a mess of knots and expose all the threads, one by one. “Or maybe you already saw it and ignored it, I don’t know; my point is, whether they fight or stand as a united front—there’s a pull, a sense of fitting, and you can’t miss that.”

Mellie’s words hang in the air, heavy and final; sorrow and longing sneak in, and defeat settles into his bones. “It’s tough to watch, while also being aware that some of us have wasted so much time, but in some twisted way, they give me hope; hope that no matter how stubborn ordecided against something or firm on avoiding you’re set on being, if it’s right, it will work itself into happening, eventually.”

The belief seeping through her words is almost haunting, and all he can do is bow his head, shoulders a little slumped forward, and let reality rest its solid hand against his skin; its grip light and cool.

**_ IV _ **

**_ Mellie—a couple of years later _ **

Her secretary chirps, “Olivia Pope’s here to see you, ma’am,” on the line.

“Send her in, Michaela.”

The door clicks, and there Liv is—smiling; even her steps utterly cheery. Which hasn’t been that rare of a sight lately (and by lately, her brain adds coyly, she means the last couple of years. In front of her, that is); this time, however, there are details that just shine in the lines of her face. Her eyes are alight, her cheeks round in that way—the way that huge smiles have of making themselves known by doubling and simultaneously occupying every inch of skin they find.

“I feel like my face is about to break,” she admits.

“Well, then,” Mellie chirps back—and, jeez. Good mood _is_ contagious. “Why don’t you tell me what is it that will prompt me to buy tons of face glue in the near future first?”

Liv’s eyes drop to her feet, staring so intently that Mellie has to wonder whether or not there’s something she might be missing. “I—uh, have something,”

Hold up a second. Is this Olivia Carolyn Pope caught in the very common people act of _stuttering_?

“No kidding, Sherlock. You always have something,” she says. “What is it this time?”

“I have something,” Olivia repeats loudly as she glares, “to tell you. And it’s... personal. Something that needs to stay private for as long as possible; which, given where we live might be a shorter while than ideal, but still—I need to tell someone, so I came to you. I _can_ tell you, right?” 

Mellie nods.

“I’m pregnant,” she’s gone from stuttering to running a hundred words a minute and now she’s back at whispering, her voice thread-y; an emotion that isn’t quite clear yet hiding in the space between words.

Mellie softens, her joy not fully kicking around inside of her yet. After all, she hasn’t had the chance to figure out whether said joy is actually warranted. “Does he know?”

Liv throws her a look. “Have you met Jake? Even if I had tried not to tell him—which I didn’t; it would have driven me insane—he would’ve caught on fast,” the fondness in her voice is unmistakable.However, the cheer is covering something up and it sticks out. “What is eating at me is this: we’re both fucked up and we found a way to make it work in spite of this, but is this balance we have found enough to throw something—someone—as demanding as another human being into the mix? I have had to face this crossroad before; I chose in the blink of an eye, and I chose the way out by myself, but now,” she exhales, “now I am scared shitless.”

“Olivia,” she says, her own throat closing. “That man—he loves you, fucked up or not. He loves you, and I am positive that whatever choice you end up making, that’s not going to change or evaporate or vanish. What I can advise you to do is, talk to him. The choice, and I’m also sure he will tell you as much, is yours; but you’re not forced to deal with it on your own, so don’t.”

Olivia smiles a watery smile and makes her way to her, heels ticking a muffled rhythm across the floor; she hugs her—unexpectedly and tightly. It’s a warm hug, far away from their stiff touches back in the day. “Thank you, Mellie.”

“Don’t even mention it; just know that I have dibs on god-parenthood, if you guys decide to walk that road. After all, if I hadn’t cornered you, you two might still be pining away, convinced no one in the world had gotten the hint.”

Olivia’s laugh echoes behind her retreating back; clear as a bell and deep as the ocean, her amusement ringing out like a firework.

**_ V _ **

**_ Jake _ **

“Is that _Sunny_ you’re humming?” Mellie wonders aloud.

They’re waiting for Liv to wake up. He’s stuck into a series of emotions that, according to logic, shouldn’t even want to find themselves close to one another, but here they are; beating and tossing around inside of him as though he were their own personal gym, with the coach out for the day and a lot of steam to blow off.

He has; no— _they have a daughter._ Who is currently tucked against his chest, a blanket enveloping her tiny body and yes; he is humming Sunny of all songs, because all his little girl needs right now—the glaring obvious and sassy reply to this sends a wave of panic through him due to the fact that he can do absolutely nothing about it, for either of them, and he loathes it—is warmth and good feelings; and that—he can give; even if just by humming.

When Liv had told him that she was pregnant and had no idea what to do, all he’d managed to do was hold her, his lips in her hair, whispering all the reassuring things he could. “We have time, and whatever alternative you settle on, I’ll be here. No matter what—you know I will.”

She had told him about that other time, her fears—and his—bubbling up and snarling for evenings in a row, their little cocoon on the couch wrapped tighter and tighter;their resolve holding its ground more and more firmly, in synch with the heartbeat inside of her growing steadier.

“It is,” he whispers now, his lips bending as memories press to life. “Sentimental value, you know. Has Liv ever told you about those two months after Fitz got re-elected?” he bites his lip—six years ago or yesterday, she still had lost a child. “I’m sorry, Mel—I shouldn’t have put a timestamp on it.”

Her head shakes. “Don’t, Jake. It will always ache, but as unfair as it was, tragedies happen. I can’t tiptoe around it forever.”

He grits his teeth against another useless apology. _This is not the time or the place_. “We ran away—to an island off the coast of Zanzibar. And we just... were us. No planning, no pretending, no scandals or political warfare; just me and Liv. We weren’t doing anything on the sly of a shade; we were free and the sun was all over us. Hence—the fondness I have for that song. It stuck, even after all these years.”

Mellie smiles that warm smile he has yet to grow accustomed to. “So many things are clearing these days. You know, back in the day, when all of this,” she gestures to him and the baby, her finger pointing at the golden band barely peaking from beneath the soft blanket. “Was just a ploy to cover up the sordid affair my husband couldn’t seem to be able to put an end to, I told her I liked you. What I had no idea about yet was that _she_ actually liked you— _and then some_ ,” she winks. “I’m glad I made that clear and she stayed on that path.”

“Believe me, the path was much longer than that, but every single bump and curve and ditch was worth it.” He smiles back, his arms instinctly tightening around the now quiet bundle resting in his arms. “Look at her, she’s perfect,” his voice has dropped to the whisper of awe—and disbelief has thrown its two cents for sure. “Which will surely change to a handful at some point, but still; it’s weird to think that either of us had a hand in making it possible.”

Mellie smiles—again. There is something in this smile, though; something vaguely resembling knowledge dancing around the edge of her mouth and the light in her gaze. “Oh,” she pats his shoulder. “Honey, you have no idea. I have words for you: Liv as a teenager plus you as a teenager, all shaken up and mixed into one human, who will add to this.”

He catches on. She is trying to distract him from the abyss that over thinking will lead him into, and he’s grateful; he know his own head and it isn’t a fairytale. “Why,” he groans, “did you bring this up? She’s barely a baby, Mel.”

“The sooner you warm up to change, the better. It’ll feel like a pretty skilled sneaker, grown up or not.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” he grumbles.

“You’re welcome,” she pipes up. “Apparently, it’s my job to be your pep talker—and your wife’s. If anyone asks, you guys are paying me, funding my retirement, President or no President; and it’s not cheap,” she proclaims, eyes gleaming.

He salutes, his laughter begging to be spilled, beating loudly somewhere in his throat, as the baby babbles back to wakefulness. “Yes ma’am—copy that.”

“Hey you,” he coos. “How about I go check on your mom and you hang out here with Aunt Mellie for a little while, huh?”

The baby stares at him sleepily, as though she were trying to figure him out. She gurgles, as though she knew who he’s referring to, and her tiny fingers curl around his hand. _Yes, please, Dad. Go see her._

“We’ll be fast friends, you and I; you will see,” is what he hears Mellie say once the baby is in her arms, her voice a warm welcome in that same soft tone he had no idea he would be capable of uttering.

He sighs, idle hands twitching nervously. _Time to face the music, Ballard—and it might not be so sunny._

-:-

Entering a hospital room shouldn’t shock him—or make him feel like he’s being gutted _and_ sucker-punched at the same time—as much as it does. For Christ’s sake, he’s the one that puts people in this kind of rooms—okay, maybe “put” isn’t the most accurate verb considering part of the job entails people don’t even time of thinking about a hospital, let alone actually crossing the threshold; and he’s good at his job, which is why all he can picture right now (besides nerves; hasn’t this extremely dark train of thought already proven that he’s nervous, anyway? He’s the put together one, Liv’s the ranter and the pacer) is this: irony laughing its ass off at him, occasionally munching on popcorn. Because— _irony._

He approaches the bed on which—obviously—she’s curled. She looks peaceful, and he’s seen her like this so seldom his chest aches; there were those months on the island of course, but peace was kind of inescapable on that patch of land. Liv always has something to think about, somewhere to run to and someone to set straight. She’s unstoppable. _Tiny but mighty_ , she usually reminds him, light punch to his arm attached.

He foregoes sitting by her side. That’s for desperate times, like being shot so thoroughly that your vital organs are messed up enough to rely on a former Russian spy. Instead, he mumbles, standing close, “she’s beautiful, you know.”He exhales, the weight of doing this—talking about his wonderful daughter to her mother as though she might never actually meet her—slamming into him like multiple moving trucks at a high speed, and his throat burns like the fieriest pit of hell. “And before you pipe up and go, _you’re biased_ on me, hear me out. She’s—she’s just so _you_ , I can’t even begin to try and explain it. It’s one of the most breathtaking things I’ve _ever_ laid eyes on. Of course, she’s also me and she will eventually be both and neither—it’s a lot to wrap my head around, and I just... I need you to know this, because I know you and I _know_ you’ve spent months wondering whether or not you—we—were doing the right thing by her,” here he is: ranting. The words seemed to be locked away before he entered the room and looked at her, the feeling of having held their daughter still so present and full, her warmth still on his skin; now that he _has_ laid eyes on Liv though, the words are a fury inside of him and they won’t stop pouring out of his mouth. Yes, pouring; they drip and tick and pool, warm and loud like a river—choked with emotion as they are. “And what I can tell you is this, you fought your fears and your doubts head on, over those months, I’ve seen it—hell, I was there with you the entire time; now she’s here and I can guarantee you that you tore every single damn one of the things that made you toss and turn at night, that made you scream, to bits that make ash look concrete, sweetheart.” Pet names aren’t a thing that they usually go for—if ever, actually—but this time it just attached itself to the sentence.

“What,” she croaks, her voice a feeble line, “you thought you had to play the pet name card to get me to see my daughter?”

He’s laughing, but he’s also pretty sure about the fact that somewhere in that laugh, tears are echoing. Tears of relief, of a joy he wouldn’t have deemed possible mere years ago. “You do have a really busy schedule, Ms Pope,” he counters.

She arches a brow. “You think I could say no to my child, considering how aptly you’ve pulled at my heartstrings going on and on about how cute she is?”

He shrugs his shoulders, lips bent in a grin. “Touché.” He kisses her softly on the cheek, a light touch he barely thinks about before it happens. He whispers, full of tenderness, “We’ll be right back, _Mom._ ”

The smile on her face is a sight he’ll never forget.

**_ VI _ **

**_ Olivia _ **

She is antsy—you know, skin crawling and stomach turning; body trembling kind of antsy. Which is ridiculous, FYI. She’s about to meet her child. _Guess New Mom Jitters are a real plight._

The door opens with the typical whoosh that hospital doors do these days, and there her husband is—a bundle of blankets secured against his chest. 

In lieu of greeting her, he sashays closer; his entire demeanour hushed, except for the wide grin that he can’t seem to keep off his face—bright and infectious.

When he does say something, it’s in a tone she’s never heard before; it’s a hoarse voice so low you’d think he hasn’t spoken in who knows how long, somehow vibrating with a particular kind of tenderness—the one childhood memories are supposed to be soaked in. Her heart picks up, its beat a mix of soaring thrills and worried sputters in her chest. “This is your mom,” the tiny curve of his lips is nothing short of adorable. “And this,” his gaze shoots up to hers, gleaming with unshed tears; his voice falters for the space of a breath as his hands move to place their baby against her chest. “Our daughter.”

The baby settles against her skin, barely even fussing as though she recognises her from some memory she is not even aware she possesses yet; instinct raises within her like a wave and Liv cradles her, panic squeaking to life in the back of her head as she does so. “Jacob Hamilton Ballard,” she grumbles at him. “You mean to tell me I’ve been unconscious for who knows how long and my daughter hasn’t had a name all the while?”

His hands fly up at the sides of his head. “Uh-uh. Maybe—I mean, I could’ve gone with _Sunny_ , but I’m clinically sure you’d be trying to strangle me right now.”

“Fair enough.”

The idea has been bouncing around her head ever since that one afternoon; popping up and whispering in her mind like that bit of song you always remember, even when the title pulls a black op and it keeps eluding you until you give up and google it. “What about Melody?” she suggests.

Jake smiles again. “That sounds perfect. A good omen, really.”

“Good omens,” she sighs. “I like the sound of that.”

“Melody Pope-Ballard it is then,” he announces solemnly while mimicking the vibration of drums.

He scoots closer, Liv adjusting herself so that his arm can slide against her back, her head falling into the curve of his shoulder; that particular spot where all she feels is safe and loved and at home. He kisses her forehead gingerly and she burrows further into him, savouring the fact that yes; this is her life now—and it feels thrilling and peaceful at the same time. She absolutely cannot wait to dig deeper into it, however scary it might turn out to be.She’s Olivia Pope and she’s done running and hiding; she’s here and she wants to _live_ —through anything and everything at the fullest extent possible.


End file.
